School Lunches

I was never one of those kids who had bagged lunches.

But I was always jealous of them. Those lunches perpetually held hidden surprises in them: napkins that caring mothers had scribbled their love messages on in their loopy cursive, an extra snack pack, last night’s leftovers or a second yoo-hoo to combat thirst.

Although my fellow lunch bringers would cringe in embarrassment at any affectionate note from loving mothers or fathers, their faces turning red as they quickly crumpled them in their hands before anyone else could see, I found no shame in having someone on the outside willing to take the time to do such things. I was a little envious. The only times that I brought my own lunch were for field trips that spanned longer then the average school day. It was only then that my parents cared about my lunch past the rudimentary level of putting money on my lunch card and sending me on my way. Lunches for these trips were always a big affair for me. My well meaning parents would let me choose whatever I wanted to put in them which I’m sure was any child’s dream, but in the end I was still the one packing them. However, that wasn’t the worst part.

The worst part was the lunch bag they made me carry. It was big enough to verge on obnoxious and it made me feel like I stuck out. When you’re a kid, it’s surprising how much you worry about fitting in long before you can fully grasp the axioms of acceptable social behavior among your peers. The bag had a built in cooler, was insulated and my parents didn’t have to fork over too much moolah in order to take it home. It did a perfect job of carrying my lunch no doubt but what did I care; I was just a kid and things like obnoxious lunch bags mattered.

Everyday my class would walk single file towards the cafeteria and as we passed through the doors the lunch bringers and lunch buyers would separate. The bringers would go to our assigned tables and the rest of us would race into another smaller adjoining room where all the food to be had was. We would all rush to be among the first to find our lunch cards hanging on the wall so that we could be among the first to line up. The quicker you could find your card, the quicker you could get in line, the quicker you could get your food and the longer you had to eat.

The selection of food was hardly anything to go home and brag about and for a picky eater like me, there was never anything to eat.

Sloppy joes were the epitome of gross and it took a certain kind of person to eat them. I deemed those who got them and actually ate them slovenly and uncaring about where their food was coming from. In my eyes they were just as sloppy as the food they were devouring. I can safely say that I never touched them. Other forms of meat included burgers, fish sticks (which were, of course, fishy), hotdogs, corndogs and beef teriyaki. Your safest bet was to stick with the burgers and to load up on the condiments.

Now, the milk cartons were something that I had difficulty with, as I could never manage to open the carton on my own. Besides milk, the only other option to my memory was water. Neither of these choices satisfied me. I was a kid and I wasn’t thinking about what was best for my health or growth. I didn’t care about strong bones when my stomach was crying for me to be unhealthy.

The last main component of school lunches was the fruit/vegetable aspect. I don’t remember my school having much to do with carrots and broccoli, but that may just be because if they did I never wasted my time on them. I’d rather go for the grapes or apples or even oranges.

This may have just been an invention of my own school, but on grape days we would all search for what we called ‘baby’ grapes. Grapes that were itsy-bitsy and amused us to no end for no reason at all except that they were abnormally small. We would go even further to see who had the puniest of these baby grapes and the proud owner would do us all a favor and announce it to the class to endless hilarity and delight.

Maybe my school was just more easily amused than others.

It’s been a while…

and I still wonder how you’ve been… what you’ve been up to. Does your mailbox still have that dent in it from that one night so long ago when the world was ours and we didn’t care? When we would have thrown it all away for a smoke and a quick fix in the back of your car? We lived on chump change and cigarettes. We lived for holding hands and each other. I will never forget the way you would rub your thumb so gently on my wrist, as if you were afraid to break me. I hate winter but I will always look back fondly upon those cold nights so long ago when we would slide onto your leather seats and you’d rest one hand on my knee, the other on the steering wheel. The heater wouldn’t even kick in until I was long past home, but I didn’t care. I still had the warmth of our late night encounter on my mind and that was enough. Do you remember that night when you asked me to kiss you while driving me home and I said no? It wasn’t because I didn’t trust you to keep me safe, I always felt safe when I was around you, but it was because in that instant I realized we were young and stupid and could easily end just like that. Those cars headed our way, steered by the faceless, didn’t care about us or the happiness that we had yet to share. But then I saw the lights flicker across your temple and jawline and cheekbone at fleeting intervals that seemed to last hours, not mere seconds. And I kissed you anyways, didn’t I? For a moment I felt on top of the world. I miss the days when things were enough.

The Last Night

Maybe it’s ironic the last time I saw you two nights before you were drunk. That after downing shots and guzzling liquor, you thought of me and wanted me then. All I got out of it were your drunken texts and calls. You got pieces of me. You got satisfaction. You got your dick sucked for over an hour.

I got bruises. Four of them that formed a ring: two on my collarbones, two on my shoulders. That was the testimony to my night. But the only one I could explain was the bite mark on my shoulder that had bloomed into a flower like contusion. You got to use me, bend my body to your will. I was glad to do it.

Maybe it’s ironic that two nights before, you fell asleep. You didn’t mean to, you were supposed to drive me home. I remember looking at the clock on your TV, it was 6:38. It had been four hours of you, you, you. You taking whatever you wanted violently… bed shaking, legs quaking, chest heaving. Me bending backwards, forwards, over the bed for you. Your hands guiding me.

Until finally I said enough. You were supposed to take me home; it’d never been this late before. Close, but never this late. You fell asleep with your back turned towards me. I regretted de-spooning myself from you… regretted getting up and pulling your arms from around me. Regretted moving my arm out from under your head. But you didn’t try again. You fell asleep with your back turned towards me.

I tried to take up as little room as possible. I was cold, but the blanket was under you. Curled up, I became so small. I used myself for warmth when really it was your warmth I wanted. I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I remember is waking up. You asked me if I was ready to go. It was 8:20.

I looked like pure shit. My hair was a mess of tangles… we had tried to smooth it out the night before with your gay roommate’s brush but that did no good. My make up was all gone because you had fucked it all off the night before. Mere hours ago, really.

We rode in silence. “I don’t want to go to work,” you said. It started in 20 minutes and I didn’t feel sorry. “Do you have class today?”

“Just one,” I answered. It started in less then an hour. “But I feel like I won’t go.”

All this polite conversation – useless.

When you pulled up and stopped your car, I turned to you not knowing what to expect. I did this every time. But this time you kissed me. Four times. On my cheek, down the side of my face. God, that smile. I could forget myself completely with that smile. I could let it screw me over, not just screw me.